


as above, so below

by ffonippop



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Asphyxiation, Bruises, Choking, Conflicted Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Established Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt, I literally don't know what to tag this, M/M, Prison, Roughness, Toxic Relationships, Trust, Unhealthy Relationships, erotic asphyxiation but without the erotic and its a lot more fucked up, its quite morbid really, self doubt, unhealthy Dream/George
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29394798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ffonippop/pseuds/ffonippop
Summary: Dream's biggest fear is hurting George.George doesn't care enough to be scared of getting hurt.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 185
Collections: MCYT Universe





	as above, so below

**Author's Note:**

> id like to thank my choking kink, my absent douchebag father, and my eighth grade english teacher for unknowingly helping me create this fic. however, i find that ms thomaston deserves a note of her own:
> 
> ms thomaston, i know you told me all those years ago that "laying" is to refer to the action of leaving an item on a surface and "lying" is to refer to a person on a surface, but "laying down" sounds much better than "lying down" so shut up fuck you i hate u i have a bigger dick than u and also im pretty
> 
> anyway thanks for clicking onto this fic, i appreciate it and ur super poggers. i hope u like it more than u thought you would
> 
> -alyssa

"What's your biggest fear?"

The question hangs softly around the air in the obsidian box that is Dream's prison, coming out of nowhere in the middle of a tender moment of silence, uttered by the prisoner himself, directed to his visitor. 

And the question should sound ominous. It should sound dark and foreboding and menacing, but it doesn't. In fact, in an odd contrast to what it should sound, the question sounds rather comforting. 

Calm, Dream thinks. Maybe tender. Maybe even soothing.

And maybe the uncharacteristic softness of Dream's tone comes from the fact that the question isn't directed to to the easily influenced enderman, or the young martyr, or even the optimistic demon or his best friend. 

Maybe, it's because he's talking to George.

Any other person and Dream's voice would be full of venom and threatening. Any other person and the question would sound menacing rather than curious. Any other person. But it isn't _any other person_ Dream is asking the question to. It's George.

George, the only person left who still _isn't_ scared of Dream. George, the one person left unchanged by the trials and tribulations that come hand in hand with war, left untouched by the countless battles waged against him. 

George, who Dream could _never_ raise his voice against. 

Youthful, thoughtful, supportive George who's always been a careful enigma, laying down supine on the less than comfortable floor, looking up at the obsidian ceiling with a lazy smile on his pretty pink lips, looking like he hasn't a care in the world, hasn't a single opinion on what everything's dissolved to.

George, who shrugs disinterestedly at Dream's question and answers with a facetious, "I dunno." 

Dream repeats his question with a small, lopsided grin, not allowing George to continue with such an unthoughtful and boring answer. 

" _George_ ," Dream drawls out, voice almost comparable to an embarrassingly indigent whine, "come _on_. Don't be boring and answer the question. What's your worst fear?"

And Dream can't see his face at all in this prison cell but he's got no doubt he's looking at George with that same stupid expression again, looking at George as if they were still eighteen and innocent, being forgiving and fond and intimate and warm and vulnerable in the way only _George_ is allowed to see, only _George_ is allowed to experience, only _George_ is allowed to know about.

And his eyes are _no doubt_ just small viridescent blurs at the edge of George's unfocused field of view, expectant and sweet, but he's _fine_ with not having George's full attention because having just a little bit of it is enough for Dream. 

Dream finds he's fine with a lot of things he usually hates when George is around. He's fine not being the center of attention when George is around, okay with showing his weaknesses when George is around, okay with letting his guard down when George is around.

Dream's okay when George is around. 

And George, oblivious to the pedestal Dream's placed him on, chuckles at Dream's persistence but doesn't respond.

He keeps his eyes, a kaleidoscope of all shades of brown, staring right where they've been staring for the past half hour - the obsidian ceiling of Dream's suffocatingly small cell.

The pattern of the obsidian ceiling is boring and messy and probably one of the least interesting thing in the room, and the laying down on the obsidian floor proves to be uncomfortable, with the uneven grooves and small bits of rock digging into your back.

There's really no reason for George to still be laid down supine the way he has been for a while now, looking up at the blackness and cracks of the ceiling.

Everything that could be memorized about the low ceilings already been memorized and, in Dream's humble opinion, could hardly be plafond.

But still, George stares up above, as if the black rock is Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel, as if he's staring up at the staircase to heaven, as if he'd rather be _here_ , admiring the purple that drips rhythmically from the cracks of crying obsidian, than anywhere else.

Idly, Dream wonders what's so _interesting_ about the obsidian, what has George staring, what has George unblinking, what has George so focused on it rather than Dream.

And George's lazy smile widens just a little bit the more he surveys the ceiling.

"If you think about it," the brunet says as if sensing Dream's confusion, voice full of passion but still so unfocused, "we're not really looking _up_ at the sky. We're looking _down_ to a dark abyss of maybe-nothingness, maybe-somethingness with nothing holding us down but the something called gravity. If gravity turned off, we wouldn't rise up, you get me? We'd fall."

Dream blinks.

 _Odd observation_ , he thinks to himself, and it really is an odd observation. But he thinks on it for a while longer and supposes that George is right. It's a bit disorienting hearing that. It's a bit heavy, too.

Dream hums.

He lays himself down next to George, ignores the little bumps of the obsidian pressing onto his back, stares up at the same ceiling George is gazing towards, and thinks maybe George is imagining space, laying down on the cell floor, looking up (down?) at the ceiling. 

Faintly, Dream wonders if George imagines comets flying through the sky when he thinks of space. He wonders if George imagines nebulas and galaxies. Or if he just imagines stars. He wonders how the idea of space looks to George. 

Dream doesn't dwell on the thought for long.

Thinking about the skies has him missing it.

Thinking about the skies has him reminiscing the times where he used to run under (over?) it's galactic glow, has him questioning how cruel he really was to be locked away in this cage and have the sky taken away from him. 

"Is that your worst fear?" Dream pries, taking them away from the conversation of space and gravity and bringing them back to the question he first asked. "Being thrown into space?" 

George chuckles lowly.

He shakes his head, but it doesn't work as well when his head is against the floor, keeping him from fully moving. Dream understands the gesture well enough. 

"No," George chuckles. "It's not."

Dream arches an eyebrow. "What is?" He prods.

George rolls his eyes and answers with a flippant and short, "Heights." 

Dream matches the eye roll with his own.

"No, it's not," Dream refuses.

And he laughs because he's seen George scale trees over sixty feet tall and laugh, seen George grin at the thought of falling, seen George beam and climb and climb and climb until he's touching clouds and the air grows thin around him. 

No, Dream decides. George isn't afraid of heights. 

He sits up from his laid down position next to George, propping himself up with his palms, looking down on George like the brunet is an unsolved mystery, and he is. 

For the first time in a while, George peels his eyes from the ceiling above (below?) him and meets Dream's gaze with easy amusement.

"No," George admits, infuriating grin on his face at being caught in a lie. "It really isn't."

For the hundredth time, Dream asks, "What is?" And a beat passes where George just smiles at him, secretively, so Dream tries again. "Tell me, George? Please?" 

And despite the eye roll George supplies, Dream knows George can't deny that. He's never really been one to resist Dream for so long.

But even though George can't resist him, the shorter man could still pretend to be annoyed by it.

"Prison's made you needy, Dream," George complains jokingly, and Dream snorts at the statement.

There is some truth in it, though, Dream allows.

He's been clingier around George during these small weekly visits. He's been more insistent. In some small way, prison really _has_ made Dream needy.

Dream shoves the thought away and keeps the joking atmosphere of their conversation. He rolls his eyes fondly at George. 

"Shut up and answer the question or I'll call Sam to take you away," Dream threatens with barely suppressed chuckles.

George barks out a laugh.

It's as empty as a threat can possibly be.

But still, as if to entertain it, George finally answers the question. 

"Drifting apart, probably," George says with a small smile that widens as Dream raises a brow.

"The thought of things shifting, slow at first, unnoticeable, until they've changed completely and then waking up one day and realizing that the man who used to be your best friend is nothing but a stranger now. It's not that I don't want things to change. It would be boring if they didn't. But I want to stay close with the people I'm close with. That would probably be my biggest fear, for now."

Dream goes quiet. A breathy whistle, a nervous laugh, a concerned grin. 

"Fuck, George," Dream says, breathless as he combs a hand through his blond locks, eyeing George with uncertain green eyes. "That's a long way from heights." 

George laughs, loud and clear against the warm sulfuric smelling air of the cell, a pink blush gracing his pale cheeks.

The bubbling and popping of the lava wall sounds further away when George laughs. So does the constant thrum of redstone that hides behind the walls. Everything goes quiet for George's laughter. It's like the world tones itself down just to hear him laugh. 

It's pleasant.

"What's yours?" George returns conversationally, easy smile still gracing his lips in a way that's much too welcoming to be directed at Dream.

Dream raises a brow. "What do you mean what's mine?" 

George rolls his eyes playfully. "What's your biggest fear, idiot." 

Dream just shrugs.

In truth, he's thought of this question all too much when the clock on the wall says it's night time and there are no visitors. 

If Ranboo, Tommy, Bad, or Sapnap had asked, Dream would probably say, "Nothing." But that would be a lie. 

But since George was asking, Dream allows himself to be honest. Just this once. (If George had asked again, he would be honest more than just this once.)

"You," he answers truthfully. 

The brunet raises a brow, clearly not knowing whether to be flattered or insulted.

"Me?" George repeats, confused.

And Dream nods.

"You," he confirms. "You waking up one day and realizing what I've become, y'know? You waking up one day and deciding you don't like me anymore. And maybe, me telling you this is just helping you realize that, but I'm still just as scared of it. I don't want you to be around someone so destructive. But I don't want you to leave, either."

George softens his gaze.

He sits up, brings a hand to rest on Dream's back, and smiles.

"That could never happen," George assures fondly, and his voice is as genuine as it could possibly sound, as true as he can make it. 

Dream believes him. He smiles.

"I know," he says. The trust George has in him makes him soft. A sorrowful sort of soft, a guilt-filled, shameful sort of soft. "But you're so... _human_."

George arches a challenging brow.

"So are you," he retorts, almost accusatory as he presses a finger to Dream's side, the touch faint against his prison jumper. Dream has to laugh.

"I am," Dream remarks, an amused smile in his voice. "But I'm a different kind."

"How?"

"Humanity's drifted from me ages ago, George." He is aware of how small he sounds, how fragile he is when he speaks. Likewise, he is aware of how George rolls his eyes at the statement. "I've killed people."

George scoffs.

"So have I," he argues, stubborn.

"You've killed people because you've had to," Dream counters softly. George doesn't say another word against that, and Dream knows it's because he can't make a case against it. "Me, I've killed people for power. By choice. George... you're so _painfully_ human. I'm afraid of breaking you."

George shrugs, the paragon of indifference.

It's the wrong reaction.

Dream expected fear. Instead, he gets quiet compliance, careless frown, dismissive flick of the wrist.

"I don't care if you do," George says after a minute. "If you ever choose to hurt me, I'd have deserved it."

Guilt pools involuntarily at Dream's gut. He has half a mind to know the things George says aren't right. 

"Don't say that," Dream mumbles weakly.

"It's true." George looks at him with intense eyes, defiant brown against conflicted green. "It's not like you to raise a hand against me, so if you ever did, I know I'd have deserved it. I know you, Dream. You wouldn't hurt me."

Dream falters at the sincerity of the statement, his tongue drying as he continues to argue, "What you're saying isn't... it's not _good_ , George. I need you to know that. It's not _healthy_. I've hurt other people."

George remains stubbornly sure of his stance. "Not me."

"Other people." 

"I don't care." George waves a flippant hand, dismissive, annoyed. "Not me." 

And it's quiet for a minute, the only noise coming from the bubbling and popping of the wall of lava near them. It's an awful noise. It reminds Dream of his circumstance. Reminds Dream of the cruelty that landed him here.

This cell is a monument of his sins. George is the only thing left untouched.

Softly, Dream asks, "Doesn't it scare you?" 

George lays back down. He closes his eyes as if to prove a point, letting himself be vulnerable under Dream's gaze, leaving himself unguarded, giving Dream full trust.

"Does what not scare me?" George returns.

Dream's frown deepens. He gathers his thoughts, thinks on what to say before he says it. 

"Just... I don't know. The thought of me being able to hurt you right now. The burden of knowing I've proved multiple times over that I'm dangerous. We've got this whole cell just to prove it. I can hurt you."

George groans, as if to say, _We're still talking about this?_

"Then hurt me," George commands, and he says it with such diction, Dream freezes where he sits. 

Dream hesitates. Surely, he heard that wrong. Surely, George had a better sense of self preservation than that.

"What?"

"Do it," George orders. "Wrap your hand around my neck. Suffocate me. Hurt me. Right now." He opens one eyes lazily, daring Dream. The calmness of his stare is a direct contrast to the words he says. "Kill me."

Dream lets out a shaky breath.

Subconsciously, he scoots away a little further, not trusting himself with the frailty the is George.

"Fuck off."

George lets out a self satisfied chuckle at his response, grinning smugly. 

"That's why I'm not scared of you," he laughs, the movement of his chest hypnotic. "No matter how many times you threaten it, no matter how many times you've shown up at my doorstep bloodied and bruised, no matter how many times you bring up the fact you've killed people, we both _know_ you'll never hurt me."

Dream frowns. "I won't," he says.

"I know."

Another pause. The silence is comfortable. Easy. But at the same time, strange.

Something insidious lurks between them. Something harmful and toxic and bad.

Dream frowns. "But you'd let me?"

George blinks disinterestedly up at Dream.

"You want to?" He asks, and it's concerning how unbothered he sounds with the prospect. A question of curiosity rather than fear. "Would you like to take one of my three lives?"

Dream shakes his head quickly, shutting down the idea before George can encourage it further. He could never.

"No. Just... hurt you. I'll just. Strangle you. And you'll respawn behind the lava wall. And if you want, you can come back in."

George lets out a breath, more inconvenienced than afraid. "Sure."

Dream swallows. "You're not even going to ask why?"

A small frown that says, _I don't care why._

"Do you want me to?"

"I want you to want to." Dream is fully aware of how strained he sounds as he says it, aware of how it sound so much like a plead. "I want you to be _concerned_ for your _life_ , George."

George rolls his eyes at the mini lecture.

"Okay, fine," George succumbs with great annoyance, waving a careless hand around as he does. "Why do you want to hurt me, Dream?"

"I want you to feel it," Dream answers. The words taste bitter in his tongue. He wishes George treated this as something more important. "I want you to feel what it feels like to have died by my hands. I want you to know what I could do and care more about yourself, George."

George wrinkles his nose distastefully. "I already know what you can do."

Dream shakes his head. "I want you to experience it. I want you to be scared. I want you to know, if I really wanted to, I could take one of your three lives. And you would never be able to fight back."

A small pause. Tenser than before, but not tense enough.

"I wouldn't try to fight back either way, but sure," George agrees, like they're talking about something as trivial as the weather and not _death_.

It's disturbing to Dream how easygoing and fearless George becomes when they're talking about this. 

And George says, "Kill me," which makes it even worse because it shows how George knows _exactly_ what he's agreeing to but just doesn't _care_. His indifference makes Dream frown. 

Dream finds a sick sort of comfort in it, a satisfying warmth in knowing George trusts him enough to be so compliant in something so serious. But he catches himself humoring the thought and feels the shame catch up to him tenfold.

He wavers under George's sure gaze. "You're sure?"

"Dream." George stares at him with displeasured eyes, intense and demanding. "Do it or fucking don't. I don't care. Just go faster with whatever you choose to do so we can go back to talking about the stars."

Dream stays silent. Again, he bubbling of the lava dominates the noise of the prison, second only to the mechanical ticking of his cell clock. 

_Bubble. Pop. Tick. Bubble. Pop. Tock. Bubble. Pop._

Dream shifts and he is above George, straddling the brunet with strong thighs, hovering over the disturbingly relaxed man with a frown.

George meets his stare easily.

 _I trust you_ , his big brown eyes say.

Dream wants to take it away, wants to say, _Don't._

Slowly, so George has enough time to track his movements and tell him to stop, Dream raises his hands.

George says nothing as Dream moves them towards his neck, pale and unmarked, and Dream almost wants George to change his mind, tell him to stop with a panicked, "Nevermind" or "I'm not sure about this" or _anything_ like that.

But stubbornly, George allows Dream's hands to wrap around his neck without any resistance.

"Eventually, my survival instinct will kick in," George warns. "And I'll thrash under you. But don't listen to that, okay? I don't want you to stop because it looks like I don't want to. I want you to do what you want. I trust you."

"You shouldn't."

"Shut up."

Dream swallows. He's aware of how afraid he looks at the mere thought of hurting George, of cutting off his breathing, and he doesn't bother to hide it.

George raises a brow.

Dream can _feel_ George's adam's apple bob against his palms, can feel the subtle beating of George's pulse. It's steady, a tauntingly calm rhythm that makes Dream guilty. How _dare_ he even think about interrupting that pulse?

_Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump._

He hasn't tightened his grip yet. George looks up at him expectantly.

"George..." Dream tries, just one last time to be sure, "are you sure y-"

George groans loudly, and the action sends a vibration to Dream's palms. 

"Are you sure _you_ want to do this?" George throws back with great exasperation. "Because it _looks_ more like _you're_ more nervous about me getting hurt than _I_ am."

 _That's what's wrong with this,_ Dream's head supplies sadly. _You should be nervous. You should care more. You shouldn't give me power over you like this._

Dream swallows. "I just...."

And George fixes him with a stare, less annoyed and more concerned.

He's softened his gaze, almost like he's pitying Dream.

He lays a comforting hold on the hands around his neck but makes no effort to lead them away, just... letting his palms sit on the back of Dream's hands.

It's warm. Tethering Dream to where he is.

"Dream," George says, soothing and reassuring the way he always is. "You don't have to do it if you don't want to. I... I get the point you're trying to make."

Dream shakes his head. He allows his hands to tighten around George's neck, just a small amount. Not enough to cut off any breathing. Just enough so every finger is touching George's neck, leaving no empty space, leaving no gap.

George doesn't comment on it. 

"But you _don't_. Because you're so... _calm_ about this. George, I am going to kill you."

George hums. "Not permanently, though. You said it yourself. This is just normal death. I'll respawn, same as always, and nothing will have changed." 

Dream's hands tighten again. This time, the hold makes George's breath hitch a bit. 

"But what if it is permanently?" Dream asks.

George glances down at Dream's hands around his neck and looks back up at Dream with a fond stare. "I'd let you."

Tighter. 

"You shouldn't."

Again, "I'd -" a gasp "-let you."

Tighter.

"Don't."

"You -" _cough_ "- can't _make_ me not do anything, _Dream_."

Tighter.

George's pulse stalls down involuntarily as his breathing is forced to slow. Dream feels it through the pads of his fingers, a sickening sort of feeling. 

Dream growls.

"I shouldn't.... George you shouldn't let me be able to hurt you like this." Dream's voice wavers, shakes, and he huffs, frustrated, and for a brief moment he wonders if he's the one getting choked. 

Tighter.

"If -" George chokes on the lack of air, attempts to cough, finds he can't, chokes again. "If you d-don't wan - _fuck_ \- want me to be hurt by you, _don't f-fucking hurt me, idiot_."

Tighter, _tighter_ , until George is squirming under him, gasping for air, moving erratically.

"And if I can't?" Dream asks, knowing he won't get an answer. "If I take things too far? If I hurt you one day and I can't bring myself to stop? Will you stop me? Will you tell me I'm hurting you? Or will you still let me?"

Choking. Pathetic attempts at coughing. Rapid, panicked movements. Tears forming at the sides of his eyes, streaking down in a beautiful display of breathlessness. He's thrashing under Dream like a fish out of water, face going red and bluing out in a sickeningly beautiful display of breathlessness. 

"Hit me three times if you want me to stop," Dream offers, tilting his head as he tightens again, eyes furrowed.

George continues thrashing, gasping, squirming.

But stubbornly, he doesn't hit.

Just... lets the life be choked out of him. And his body is moving in a way that says stop, but that's just his survival instinct. That's just his body begging to breathe. That's not _him_. 

Him, who hits the ground with a closed fist to _keep himself from hitting Dream_. Unyielding, allowing himself to die to prove a point, baring the way Dream's hands continue to tighten against his neck, crushing his windpipe.

" _George_." Dream has to put effort into tightening this time. " _Hit_ me three times. _Tell_ me you want to stop."

Again, nothing.

George's movements slow.

His face purples, and Dream can feel how tight his grip is around Georges neck. Behind Dream, George's legs shift around uselessly.

Still, despite the pain, George stares defiantly at Dream, eyebrows furrowed, fight in his slowly fading gaze.

He blinks slowly at Dream as his body stop thrashing, as his hands grow still and heavy against the obsidian floor, as his chest stops heaving.

Blinks once. Twice. Three times. 

And though they've never said it like that before, Dream knows exactly what George is trying to say.

He blinks again in the same pattern of threes as the light in his eyes slowly fades out. This time, he blinks slower.

 _One_. I. _Two_. Love. _Three_. You.

And that's it. 

Dream's grip on his neck loosens and disappears, just before George can disappear under him, just before George dies.

George swallows as much air as he possibly can, coughing and sputtering violently as sits up, chest rising and falling in desperate abandon.

Dream rolls away from the straddle and lays himself next to George. Tired. Conflicted. Guilty and ashamed and pumping adrenaline. 

The horrid, dry coughing that bounces around the four walls of obsidian sounds like nails on a chalkboard to Dream. A painful sound, one he's heard so many times before in battle but _never_ from George and _never_ thanks to him. 

It sounds disgusting leaving his delicate and soft lips, sounds even _worse_ when he hacks up saliva and spits it on the floor and it comes out with bits of red.

Dream doesn't comment on it but he cringes inwardly and awaits for the coughing to fade out.

When it eventually dies out, George takes his place laying down next to Dream again (not any further away, the same distance that's always been between them) and the cell is quiet once more.

George isn't smug about it. Doesn't joke about how, even when given permission to, _dared_ to, Dream _can't_ kill him the way the blond always threatens to.

The space between them is not awkward, even after what had just happened. There's not a single residue of fear, either. It's just... quiet.

It's a sweet, almost somber moment. Calm with little bits of regret. Saccharine.

Dream lets out a shaky breath.

The silence stretches out for seconds, minutes, what seems like hours, maybe even days. Until Dream speaks up. 

"Do you think I'm the same boy you first fell in love with?" He asks, because the question's been gnawing at him for a while now. 

George stares at him, eyes rimmed red from the tears that had gathered from the lack of air. 

Having just started, Dream can no longer stop. It's the first drop of snow that triggers an avalanche and he can't stop it now, so instead, Dream continues.

"Do you see me as the same gentle creature that kissed you for the first time when we were kids? Am I unchanging to you? Is that why you can still look me is the eyes when no one else can? Is that why... why you let me do that?"

George frowns. He shrugs. He opens his mouth to speak and the sound the comes out is so, _so_ hoarse, it makes Dream flinch. _He_ did that. _He_ made George sound like that. With his own destructive hands.

George, once untouched, sounds like he'd been screaming. 

"No," George manages, barely holding back a cough. "You've changed. A lot. I can't deny that." George laughs without humor. "But so have I, probably. I can't hold that against you. You don't have to stay the same."

Comfortingly, "You haven't. Changed, I mean." 

"No, Dream," George chuckles, softly. And despite the circumstance, George is still soft-spoken and level headed. "It's okay to tell me I've changed. Change can be good."

"Oh." Dream thinks on it, thinks on how, with a hoarse voice and weak body, George can still teach him so much. "Then, yeah. I suppose you have changed."

George raises a brow with a gentle grin, encouraging more than urging when he asks, "How so?"

"You're more tolerant, I think," Dream says, quietly, fearing he'll break George with the volume of his voice. "More neutral. You don't care when I bring home the stories of things I've done wrong anymore. You're unphased when people tell you everything I've done to them." 

George frowns. "I've never cared," he protests, and despite the crackling in between his words, he sounds stronger than Dream.

"You used to," Dream argues. "You used to mope around after I fought people when we were kids. You used to ignore me for days afterwards, refuse to kiss me."

"That wasn't why I moped around," George chuckles out, leaving Dream confused. "That was because your stupid, sycophantic teenager self kept getting hurt. I couldn't care less about _who_ you were beating up, or how bloody _they_ were. I just got mad at you for shredding your pretty knuckles up, idiot."

Dream snorts.

Again, quiet blankets the pair, and it's more comfortable this time around, leaving them warmer than the lava wall ever could. Dream does not dwell on what he'll do when George's visitation hours for the week run out.

Softly, George says, "You're a good person, Dream."

Lie. Dream knows enough about himself to know it's a lie. Outright and obvious.

He's not good, and Dream knows this. Likewise, Dream knows enough about George to know George believes it with all of his being. But believing a lie doesn't make it any more true. Dream knows this more than anything.

"To _you_ ," Dream mutters, because there's a scrap of truth in the lie. "Not to anybody else. Only to you."

"Doesn't matter if you are to anybody else."

"Doesn't it?" 

George shakes his head, adamant. The movement brings Dream's eyes down to George's neck where bright, ugly bruises have begun to form in the shapes of his fingers. 

"Not to me." 

Dream reaches out, turning so he's laying on his side, and touches the bruises with gentle fingers. George doesn't flinch away. 

"I did that," Dream whispers, more to himself than anything. When the words leave his mouth, he hears how scared he sounds, hears how unsteady his voice is, shaking.

George nods. "You did." He sounds in awe. He sounds satisfied, admiring the bruises and raw throat rather than hating them.

Something sick and shameful crawls up Dream's throat. He pulls his hand back from the bruises decorating George's neck, guilt ruining him from the inside as he apologizes, "I'm sorry."

George chuckles.

Dream doesn't understand how he can find humor in the situation. He doesn't know if it's something to be admired or feared. 

"Don't be." 

And Dream can't find it in himself to argue. "Okay."

George moves closer to Dream on the floor, turns to his side so they face each other, both staring at one another's eyes, laying down on their sides with nothing but a few inches of hot air between them.

Neither of them make a move to kiss. It's not the time. The intimacy of the situation is there. But it's different. Not the time.

George's eyes flutter closed. Softly, he parts his lips and asks, "Has it changed?" 

Dream frowns in confusion. "Has what changed?"

"Your biggest fear." George's eyes stay closed but the sides of his lips lift in a minuscule smile, calm and comforting and warm and everything Dream doesn't deserve.

When Dream still doesn't reply, George clarifies his question. "Is your biggest fear still breaking me?"

Dream shakes his head, realizes George can't see with his eyes closed, and says, "No. It's not." 

George's smile grows wider. He nods in gentle approval. "Good."

George can't be broken. Even if he is, it's by choice, completely deciding to be compliant in his own downfall rather than resisting against it. 

George can't be broken. So it's stupid to be afraid of breaking him. Dream knows that now.

No. He's not scared of _breaking_ George because there was no breaking George. Not anymore.

He's not quite sure what his biggest fear is now. But there's a vague sort of feeling in Dream that suggests his biggest fear still has something to do with the man laying next to him. 

He doesn't say this out loud. Another dip in the conversation brings comforting silence, and surprisingly, George is the one to break it. 

"Being thrown into space sounds interesting," George says offhandedly, and he says it as if nothing had happened, as if they'd been talking about space this entire time. 

Dream frowns. He doesn't know what else to say, so he rolls with what George gives him.

A bit reluctantly, Dream asks, "You think so?"

George nods, perfectly serene.

He looks so content, so perfect, and the only thing wrong with the picture were those ugly bruises on his neck. They look painful, and if Dream looks at them long enough, he swears he can feel his throat start seizing up.

"Yeah," George mutters, smiling. "Just... gravity turning off, y'know? And we fall into the abyss. Sounds cool, don't you think?"

Dream shifts, and the small rises on the obsidian cracks digs against dully onto his flesh through his jumper.

"Is that what you think of when you're imagining space?" Dream asks, something that sounds suspiciously like sadness interlaced with his words. "Just an abyss? No stars or comets or anything?"

George deserves stars, Dream thinks. He deserves galaxies, deserves color, deserves _so much more_ than just abyss. George deserves so much, and he didn't even know it.

George lets out a small laugh, more like an amused breath than anything, and Dream still can't process how George can make something so heavy feel so lighthearted.

"I don't think I'd like to imagine stars," George admits. "Don't want it to be pretty. Abyss sounds perfect."

Dream nods, and his bones feel so, so sore.

He thinks if he moves, they might creak. Maybe, some of the weaker bones would even crack. He doesn't test it out.

He's tired. He's been tired for a while now. 

So Dream moves a little further away from George and looks at the ceiling.

The blackness of the obsidian is the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes and imagines space.

There are a little less stars than he remembers. 

**Author's Note:**

> anyway. lol.  
> haha u just read 5k words about george being choked by dream and it WASNT EVEN SMUT LMFAO u loser lol 😂👊👊 
> 
> ok jokes aside tho starsquad i really hope u liked it i cant stop writing george with a fucked up perception of love so idk what that says abt me but im gonna repress it !! 
> 
> this was a bit of a heavier topic for me to write bc i was scared of portraying the unhealthiness of this relationship in the wrong way. and its far from my best work but i hope i did it justice. lol.
> 
> i really liked writing dream's reluctance and fear, and i enjoyed writing george's compliance a lot more than i should have. dream's awareness that something was wrong and toxic with the way george saw their relationship was something i really liked writing and i really really wanted to focus on how, despite the fact he knew something was wrong, he couldn't bring himself to address it properly.
> 
> the ending seemed a bit too rushed for my liking but idk how to help it not feel like that so we're just gonna pretend like the ending seeming sudden is purposeful and meant to mirror dream and george's avoidance of the toxicity in there relationship. make like an english essay and bullshit ur way into making bad writing look good 😁👍
> 
> overall, this was a pretty fun fic to write and i hope u found it just as cool to read lmao. id appreciate knowing what u thought abt it. and if u didn't like it and plan to be mean to me, pls be funny at least lmfao.
> 
> -alyssa  
> discord: kuppypuppy#4846  
> twitter : [@ffonippop](https://mobile.twitter.com/ffonippop)  
> tumblr : [@ffonippop](https://tumblr.com/blog/ffonippop)  
> 


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